


Hands of Gold

by starbrigid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9850115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrigid/pseuds/starbrigid
Summary: Rather than finding Shae for Tyrion, the night before battle, Bronn keeps Tyrion company himself. He saved Tyrion's life, after all, and he's been told a Lannister always pays his debts.





	

 

            Bronn had risked his hide for Lannister gold. Not for anything else would he have put himself forward against a trained highborn knight, gone down virtually defenseless through the hills of the Vale, and be preparing now to march in the fucking vanguard against another even more overblown highborn called the Young fucking Wolf- not for anyone in this world would he stake his own life, over and over, not for anything but the sweet clanging of coin on coin. Lannister gold was the chance that had driven him forward, and it was only that gold that kept him there, drinking in a red tent in a sea of red tents with another damned highborn.

            But there was gold as well in the candlelight, the play of it across the little lion's mane, more captivating than the careless coin Lannister had flipped at him at the Inn at the Crossroads. Bronn had just been one then among a sea of smallfolk that Lannister could pay for a room or deference or anything at all, it turned out, anything Lannister wanted seemed to be for sale. It left Bronn's mouth more dry and expectant than a flask of arbor gold, and the flat of his tongue felt parched even as he gulped down Lannister's red wine in gilded goblets. He'd felt some treacherous warmth where there should have been nothing at all, creeping into his head and his gut, since the road to the Vale. Lannister had moaned and japed and charmed him with every word he spoke, whether to Bronn or Lady Stark or her grizzled old Master at Arms. It was a warmth far removed from the mere cold calculation that should have been the only thing pushing him to say, "I'll stand for the dwarf." _For hands of gold are always cold, but-_

They said the Imp was ugly and more, a monster, the shame and bane of Tywin Lannister, but he looked like any other man, really, but for being littler, and he was handsomer than most. He wasn't handsome like they said the Kingslayer was, but he was fair of face still, unmistakably a Lannister and not some fool of a court dwarf, by the color of his hair, the arch of his brow, the sharp light of wit in his eyes, the cut of his jaw, the twist of his lips, carrying himself like he was as tall as the mountain. When Bronn had met the man's lord father, he'd seen where that pride came from, but it wasn't stiff and self-important in the son like in the father. It was playful and daring and impossible not to watch, impossible not to admire- at least for Bronn.

            Lady Stark, her people, the court at the Vale, Lannister's father himself had seemed to regard him as a nuisance at best, a menace or worse for Lady Arryn and her putrid spawn. But then Bronn had always been a sucker for a pretty face- and wasn't that the biggest joke of all, that Bronn, far from a knight as any man with a sword in hand could ever claim to be, had rode in on his white horse at the last second like a daring hero to save the golden-haired noble in distress, to champion the benighted cause of his-

            He was infatuated. He was infatuated, and it had made him dumb, it still made him dumb and left a sour taste in his mouth too, his own weakness as Lannister spoke wistfully but engagingly about his infamous but apparently beloved brother, currently off leading another army. Pity they couldn't just send the Young Wolf the Kingslayer's way, and oh, the almighty laugh the Kingslayer would have seeing his brother lead the vanguard. "At least when they present him my corpse, it'll be dead of an axe to the head rather than a very, very long fall."

            "Make the little man fly," Bronn quoted.

            "Now watch the little man die," Lannister echoed, and raised his glass in tribute. Bronn laughed, but kept his glass down.

            "You aren't going to die out there," Bronn said, and Lannister started to drink the wine faster. His tolerance for a man his size was astounding, but he finally was starting on the road to drunkenness, the speed he was inhaling the stuff. Bronn wondered if he was afraid, though he certainly hadn't seemed so when the Hill tribesmen had attacked and he'd beat one to death with a bloody shield.

            The fear before a battle called for a fuck in Bronn's experience, just like the aftermath of killing. Bronn had looked for a whore in the camp for his dissolute new patron, but none of them had looked halfway pretty enough for a Lannister. He could have taken one away from a lesser soldier, but- well, now he was the only one drinking with the Imp, sharing his fine wine, listening to his fine words. If he and Lannister were to die of wolf's teeth tomorrow, there were worse ways to spend what Lannister kept calling their last night in this world.

            "Not going to die, is it? Ha!" went Lannister, nearly spilling his wine. "I suppose you're going to protect me."

            "I've gold to collect," Bronn said by way of answer, and drank deep.

            Lannister snorted. "Yes, yes, and a Lannister always pays his debts. And in the full fray of battle, how well do you think you'll keep track of my formidable stature?"

            "I'll follow the trail of the bodies," offered Bronn. "They'll find the Halfman by the piles of mighty warriors he's slain in single combat."

            "Oh, I do like you," Lannister laughed. "And my lord father will knight me right then and there on the battlefield, and singers will write ballads of Ser Tyrion of the Green Fork, and it will be all Father can do to keep our good king Joffrey from naming such a storied gallant to the Kingsguard, too. Yes, Bronn, I like you very much indeed."

            "Maybe the Starks won't notice you on the field," Bronn tried. "Stay low?"

            "Stay low?" Tyrion echoed, sputtering. "Stay low?" He shook his head and reclined back against the silken cushions, grinning ruefully. "Yes, I do believe I can do that part. I can stay low, at least. I have that covered." He sighed and swore at length. "No, I do believe tomorrow will be the day I die. I told my father that surely, there are ways to have me killed that would be less detrimental to the war effort, but- I'm sure he'll find a way to soldier on after the loss somehow. Of his son, that is. Not the battle, a loss in battle and you'd almost find him perturbed."

            These were murkier waters. Bronn didn't know if Lannister wanted curiosity or sympathy, or for Bronn to just pretend the words hadn't been spoken, but-

            "If I die in battle, my father won't know, or care if he did," Bronn said, trying for a jovial tone. "That is, if the bastard even still lives. But either way, the crows won't care. No matter who mourns or don't mourn the fallen, the birds won't give two shits. Our flesh will taste just as good filling their bellies the same. Same as the graveworms. Noble blood, peasant blood- dwarf, sellsword, noble knight- the worms don't have no preference."

            Lannister looked up sharply at that. "Ah, a philosopher," he said caustically, eyes focusing on Bronn for the first time that night. "Yes, everyone dies in the end. I just don't want to die quite yet."

            "Well, you shouldn't have gotten yourself kidnapped by the Stark woman and set your houses to war, then," Bronn quipped, half expecting Lannister to dismiss him, then drink himself to unconsciousness alone. "Inconsiderate of you, that."

            "Apologies, your lordship," Lannister sighed, bowing his head sarcastically. "My brother would never have submitted to capture so meekly. My faults are truly beyond counting. I suppose I'll answer for them tomorrow. All that's left now is what to do with my last night on this earth."

            There was something hot in Bronn's chest again, something that could be perilous. "Suppose you'll want me to leave you to it," he tried. "Could try and find you a whore, though it'd be slim pickings at this hour."

            "You mean you're in the mood for a warm mouth yourself," Lannister said shrewdly, leaning forward and peering at him. "Well, don't let me keep you. If you want coin for a woman, I'd be happy to provide. You know what they say of my father's shit."

            Bronn shrugged and affected nonchalance, lounging back against the pillows. "Fine where I am, thanks."

            "What, you don't want a woman?" Lannister frowned, eyeing him up and down, then his mouth twisted into a smirk. "Oh, a man then?" Bronn's heart leapt in his chest, but he could still scoff at that, even if he could barely meet Lannister's gaze with his face this close now, until-

            "Ah," Lannister purred, understanding lighting upon his face at last, and Bronn could feel the cold breath of the Stranger on his neck. "Ah, I see," went Lannister, not moving away, eyes burning straight through him, and Bronn was frozen. "So that's it, then. That's what you want."

            "Lannister-" Bronn started, then corrected himself. "My lord-"

            "Tyrion," said the little lord, and kissed him. Bronn's hands went up instinctively to grasp at his shoulders, and he took that as invitation to slide forward and plant his small weight atop Bronn, perching on his lap and taking Bronn's face in his hands to kiss him harder. He kissed like a man who'd learned how to kiss from whores, wet and open-mouthed and shameless as the cheapest slattern in Flea Bottom.

            The shock kept Bronn paralyzed beneath him, until Tyrion pulled back, extracting his clever tongue from Bronn's mouth and giving him a quizzical look. "Oh, did I read you wrong?" Tyrion said, and shifted his slender hips experimentally. What he found there, and the helpless groan that left Bronn's lips at the pressure, made Tyrion grin. "No, I didn't think so." He rubbed his arse down harder, wriggling atop him in a careless way that had Bronn wishing away the layers of fabric between them, Tyrion's fine silks and his roughspun cloths out of the way, because then it would be only a push of his hips upwards to bury his hard cock in the little lord, sheathe himself in Lannister gold.

            "Have I shocked you?" Tyrion whispered, and leaned in to press softer kisses against Bronn's open lips between sentences. "I should hope not. My perversities are the stuff of legend. And whatever you would have of me, you may take it, and more. I-"  
            Bronn cut off his teasing words with his own mouth, which seemed to satisfy Tyrion too, pressing his tongue into Tyrion's mouth in return and licking at the heavy taste of the wine. He seemed prodigiously warm for someone so small, his slick hot mouth, his warm hands where they grasped at Bronn's shoulders. Bronn wanted more of it, wanted to test that promise- whatever he wanted, was it? The theoretical scope of that was dizzying.

            He reached down between their bodies to feel at Tyrion as he kissed him, snaked his hand between Tyrion's legs, and the shape of Tyrion's cock was not only stiff but far more substantial than he would have guessed. He squeezed at it roughly over the fabric, wanting to hear the little lord squeak and squeal, feel him squirm atop him some more. Tyrion did not disappoint, moaning and pressing his hips up against Bronn's hand. The road was long to the Eyrie and longer back still to meet Lord Tywin in the Riverlands, and neither of them had been with anyone all that time, at least Bronn had not, and surely not Tyrion either unless his various captors had taken truly unwarranted liberties.

            The touch of another seemed to inflame Tyrion, make him pant against Bronn's mouth. "Whatever you would have of me," Tyrion whispered again breathlessly, and tried to pull Bronn's hand into the inside of his breeches. Bronn reached to start unlacing them instead, suddenly mad with the furor to get these clothes out from between them. It would have been faster to tend to themselves, but if it was to be his last night in this world, he wanted to undress Tyrion Lannister himself. He pulled away to speed the process, and Tyrion made a small, petulant, protesting noise at that, mouth going to nose at the stubble on Bronn's chin before kissing down his neck, making Bronn swear and his fingers trip over each other.

            "I'm not the kind of man," Bronn panted, "You ought to promise- anything," and finally managed to get all the laces undone and tug Tyrion's breeches along with his smallclothes down. Tyrion's shirt still hung in the way of his cock, so he reached to pull at the hem, and Tyrion lifted his arms obediently for Bronn to strip him off his shirt, laughing as he did. Bronn had always liked a man who laughed in bed.

            "Oh, I know the kind of man you are," Tyrion laughed. His golden hair fell wild around his face as the shirt came off over his head. He slid back higher to where he'd been settled on Bronn's lap, candlelight catching in his tousled hair, but Bronn pushed him back with a hand to his chest to get a good look at him naked. Tyrion kicked off his boots and breeches, leaving him fully bare, and if he was self-conscious at Bronn's scrutiny, he didn't show it. Perhaps he thought Bronn was deciding what to do with him, exactly how he wanted to call in that debt. "You saved my life, if you recall. In a singularly inglorious manner, but you did win."

            "And now," Bronn breathed, staring down Tyrion's smooth lean torso, his little rosy nipples, his narrow hips and short golden-haired legs and thick soft short thighs and the monstrous pink cock between them, standing fully erect and slick with arousal, "Now I get my reward, is that it?"

            Tyrion made a little mewling noise and tried to press closer to rub against Bronn again, rut against his leathers, and Bronn let him now that he'd looked his full, pressing a hard kiss to Tyrion's blonde curls. "My purse, and my... person," Tyrion whimpered, "Are- open to you," and gasped appreciatively at the feeling of Bronn's rough hands grabbing at his arse, kneading at the plump flesh between his fingers. "If I am to- die, let me thank you properly first. Let it not be said I did not- pay my debts, to the- fullest- ah," he moaned, rolling his hips down eagerly, and laughing through his moaning as Bronn struggled and failed to unlace his own boots around Tyrion's body.

            "Here, let me serve you, my lord," Tyrion purred, and if Bronn hadn't thought he could get any harder, those words and the sight of Tyrion sliding down between Bronn's legs proved him wrong.

            Tyrion knelt at Bronn's feet, settling down naked to untie Bronn's boots himself. Bronn got rid of his own shirt, staring down at the Lannister on his knees. Tyrion made short work of Bronn's boots, and then leaned back up to unlace the breeches, taking his time to trace the shape of Bronn's cock where it strained up against the fabric, letting the back of his knuckles draw across it. Bronn grabbed his wrists hard in one hand, seizing them with enough strength to draw a pained gasp from Tyrion.

            "Don't fucking tease," Bronn growled, and Tyrion laughed and obliged once Bronn let his hands go, stripping Bronn on command with very well-practiced ease. Bronn wondered if Tyrion could feel his heartbeat through his skin. He could nigh well hear it in his own ears, as if he wouldn't make it to the battle on the morrow for his heart outrunning itself in his chest.

            Bronn had thought before of ramming his cock into that little arse, but once Tyrion had finished undressing him, it had left him on his knees, and there was an undeniable appeal to the position. "Anything?" he said softly, reaching down to stroke Tyrion's hair, but the gesture felt almost too affectionate, too intimate, so he moved his hand lower to stroke at Tyrion's lips instead, running his fingertips around them before curling a few of his fingers down to draw Tyrion's bottom lip back.

            "You think I foreswore myself?" Tyrion whispered, and darted out his little pink tongue to lick at Bronn's fingers, curling the tip of it around his middle and forefinger. "Just tell me what to do," he said. It didn't quite sound like real submission, not from this man, but the words still hit something deep in Bronn, something that made him pull his fingers away and push his hips forward. Bronn was perched atop several of the cushions, and his cock was close enough to Tyrion's face that he could feel Tyrion's breath upon it.

            "Then give me your mouth, Tyrion," Bronn ordered, and Tyrion obliged. Kissing had showed Bronn that Tyrion had a whore's mouth, and sucking cock proved the same, as his mouth slid down as practiced and eager as any whore Bronn had ever known. The heat here in Tyrion's wine-slick mouth, wrapping tight around Bronn's cock, was almost overwhelming, and Bronn grabbed at Tyrion's hair with both hands to steady himself, pulling at it. Tyrion seemed to like that, if the vibration that went through his cock was any indication, so he pulled again, and Tyrion started to suck, working his mouth around Bronn with urgency. Tyrion seemed to like it when Bronn was rough.

            Bronn could always tell if a man liked sucking cock, and for all his storied ancestors and noble blood Tyrion seemed to love the act, licking down like Bronn was a particularly delicious vintage of Dornish red. The pressure was enough to make Bronn's hips push forward a bit more, practically of their own accord, and he felt the tip of his cock broach Tyrion's throat, but Tyrion took it and just kept sucking, working his mouth and throat around him with utter abandonment. "That's... that's good," Bronn gasped, and thrust again just a bit, pulling Tyrion by the hair a bit further down onto his cock, and that was a full, throaty moan that Tyrion was making around him now.

            "Yes, Gods, Tyrion," he panted, and felt his eyes threaten to close, but he wanted to see all of this, he wanted to burn the sight before him onto the backs of his eyelids so he could keep it there forever, the man he'd watched humiliate all the pride and chivalry of the Vale of Arryn, writhing at his feet sucking his cock like he was born to do it. Tilting his head, he could see Tyrion was still rock hard. Almost as satisfying as the wet heat around his cock was the wanton desire of the man sucking it, Tyrion's obvious pleasure in servicing him.

            "Yes, good, harder, come on, fuck..." he whispered mindlessly, feeling the heat build up his spine, his climax already approaching despite how soon it would be, how little time it had been since Tyrion had gotten to work on him. "Tyrion," he said, "Tyrion," and watched Tyrion's head bob up and down between his legs with dumb wonder, petting and pulling and pawing at Tyrion's golden hair and tugging it when Tyrion would pull back every now and then for breath to pull Tyrion's neck back and stare down at Tyrion's eyes before Tyrion leaned back down impatiently to lick at him again. "Tyrion," he said, "Tyrion, I'm-" Then words left him, and he spilled down Tyrion's throat, crying out Tyrion's name over and over as the world went white and gold at the edges.

            He came back to himself at the feeling of Tyrion licking his limp cock clean of the last bits of seed, before moving away to reach for one of the goblets and wash it down with wine. Bronn searched dazedly for a moment for the jug, then found it and filled Tyrion's glass for him, though some of it sloshed out over Tyrion's face and shoulders as he poured down. Tyrion jerked back, laughing a bit hoarsely. Bronn yanked him up by the shoulders to lick away the spilled drops before they slipped from his skin, kissing at his neck and eyelids and swollen mouth, uncaring of the saltier taste of seed beneath the sour fruit of the vintage. Bronn still didn't know if he was drunk, but his body felt heavy and sated from the force of his climax, even as the feeling of Tyrion sliding back atop him reminded him of his earlier desires.

            His fingers were sticky with wine as he palmed at Tyrion's hard cock, feeling it leak over his fingers, and he brought his fingers to Tyrion's abused lips for him to taste the mixture of pre-come and wine. Tyrion licked at them obediently, then tried to pull Bronn's hand back to his cock. Bronn yanked back, and Tyrion reached with both hands and succeeding in tugging Bronn's hand by the wrist to the hard flesh. Bronn laughed and bit at Tyrion's wine-slick shoulder, and Tyrion gasped Bronn's name huskily and rubbed his cock up against Bronn's fingers even more shamelessly than before.

            "Thought this was just a reward for me," Bronn japed, and Tyrion hissed in frustration, taking his hands from Bronn's to wrap around his neck and link there, meeting his eyes plaintively. Bronn tugged at him to oblige him, just enough to make Tyrion swear and curse Bronn.

            "Damn you, Bronn, who's teasing now?" Tyrion growled. "Come on."

            "Be patient, Lannister," Bronn laughed. "I mean to-"

            "Tyrion," Tyrion insisted, pressing a hard kiss to Bronn's mouth to punctuate it.

            "Be patient, Tyrion," Bronn repeated. "Just wait a moment, and you'll get something better than my hand."

            "Will I?" Tyrion whined, and positively glared at him when Bronn removed his hand entirely.

            "You ever been fucked, little lord?" went Bronn, and felt Tyrion shiver atop him at the words, shift closer to him. "Or you too high and mighty to be the one to take it?"

            "You're... a greedy one," Tyrion said, and reached between them to feel at Bronn's cock. Sure enough, it stirred under those clever little fingers. The look he leveled at Bronn was disbelieving and admiring, deliberately goading. "You've already had my mouth."

            "Aye," Bronn agreed, "I've had your mouth. And before the night is through, I mean to have your arse too. You'll come, don't worry your pretty golden head about that, but you'll come with my cock inside you." He felt a thrill at the effect his words had on Tyrion, who seemed to like the idea from the way he bit his bruised lip at that, eyes flicking down. "You'd best find some oil so I don't split you in two."

            Bronn knew from experience there was oil everywhere in camps, oil for lamps and polishing swords and leather and armor. There was oil that Tyrion scrambled and managed to find and bring back, climbing off him naked with his hard cock swinging through the air and coming back with his hands already opening the oil to slick his fingers with it. "Gonna put on a show for me, Tyrion?" Bronn said, and Tyrion just laughed and sat back down atop Bronn before he obliged. Bronn wasn't as young as he used to be, but if ever there had been anything in all the realms calculated to bring him raring back to life again, it was the sight of the lord Lannister spreading his legs and pushing his fingers into himself to get himself ready for Bronn's cock.

            Bronn took a long gulp of wine, then offered it to Tyrion. Tyrion's hands were well and truly occupied, one bracing himself while the forefinger of the other disappeared into his hole, so Bronn poured the wine between his legs before putting it aside. "Let me see," Bronn said, and Tyrion frowned. "Wider," Bronn ordered, and reached down to push Tyrion's thighs further apart, tilt his hips up and forward so he could admire the rosy pucker, trace the rim of it with his own fingertips as it stretched around one and then two of Tyrion's fingers.

            If he'd been a lord, he would have gone from this camp, fuck the battle and all the warring lords, would have found some castle or holdfast to hole the two of them up in and spent a week at the very least at this, at seeing what Tyrion's little hole could take, how many fingers, Bronn's whole fist even, put his mouth to it as well as his cock and seen what kind of noises he could draw from Tyrion then- but Bronn wasn't a lord, and they didn't have time, not any.

            "Another," Bronn ordered, and Tyrion chuckled.

            "You think you're an onslaught, don't you," he mocked, and Bronn kissed him and bit at his lower lip, and pushed in one of his own dry fingers instead, making Tyrion cry out.

            "Trust me," Bronn said levelly, "You'll need it," and Gods, the grip of Tyrion even around one of his fingers was painfully tight, he could only imagine how it would feel around his cock. He pulled his finger out to get some oil on it, and used the oil to slick up his own cock too before pushing the finger back in, waiting to feel Tyrion's hips press back up in response before thrusting it into him properly, feeling his finger press against Tyrion's smaller ones.

            He was seized with the dream of time again, endless time, time to take his time fingering Tyrion himself, not quick and practical for his cock but a proper fuck with his fingers, finger him until he came once and then twice again maybe even without touching Tyrion's cock, it would take forever but he bet he could make Tyrion come like that given enough time. Tyrion would grow impatient but he wouldn't have a choice if he'd let Bronn tie him down- but the Seven be cursed, they had no time at all.

            "Enough," Bronn declared abruptly, pulling his finger from Tyrion, and Tyrion followed suit. Bronn pushed Tyrion off his lap and sat up off the cushions, meaning to change their positions. He took Tyrion by the arms and laid him down across the pillows on his back, meaning to climb atop him, but then he hesitated, staring at Tyrion.

            Tyrion saw the hesitation and frowned. "What?" His eyes went down off Bronn's face, so he  could see Bronn's cock hadn't softened, and then it only took him a second. "Oh, are you scared you'll crush me?"

            "Will I?" Bronn muttered. If he'd fucked this up and lost this chance somehow, he'd deserve all seven hells tomorrow.

            "Never been with a dwarf, have you?" Tyrion sighed, and something rueful came back onto his face for the first time.

            "Have you ever had a man fuck you like that?" Bronn countered, and Tyrion laughed and reached out with surprising strength to pull Bronn down, startling Bronn enough to let all his weight fall on Tyrion.

            "Yes," Tyrion hissed, arching up beneath him. Gods, that was a beautiful shock, all their bare skin laid out against each other, and it was striking, how strangely small Tyrion felt beneath him, but not as striking as how good it felt to have his cock slide against Tyrion's oil-slick little thighs. "Yes, I have. Bigger men than you. Now, have you crushed me? Am I dead?"

            "Tyrion," Bronn snapped, wide-eyed and wild. Tyrion wrapped his arms around Bronn's neck, their faces close, and spread his legs beneath Bronn and brought them up around either side of Bronn's waist.

            He could see Tyrion roll his eyes, even as Tyrion shifted his body into place. "If you lose your nerve after all this, Bronn, I'll have your eyes carved from your face, I'll-"

            Tyrion stopped ranting and started screaming when Bronn buried his cock inside him. Gods be good, Tyrion was even tighter than he'd felt around his finger, the tightest little hole he'd ever felt around his cock, gripping him hungrily as he shoved himself inch by inch into the sweetest heat he'd ever known. Tyrion cried out with every inch, shuddering beneath him, nails digging into Bronn's shoulders and dragging down across the skin of his back.

            Bronn grinned at him, eyes locked together, and sheathed himself fully in Tyrion, relishing the feeling of Tyrion scraping at his back, the sound of Tyrion's yells, the feeling of Tyrion's body squeezing around him. "You were saying?" he whispered, and Tyrion's head fell back as he gasped for breath, overwhelmed. "More?" Bronn asked, and Tyrion just managed to nod. Bronn obliged.

            It took a good deal of force to work himself in and out to the sound of Tyrion's breathy whimpers. He shoved in against harder, quicker than the first, and Tyrion cried out even louder, one hand clenching to a fist against Bronn's shoulder. He felt both of Tyrion's hands clench and start to pound feverishly against his back as he began to rut in, setting a fast, brutal pace despite the resistance.

            Bronn might have thought of stopping or at least slowing if Tyrion hadn't started to gasp for more the moment he showed any sign of it, demanding, "Harder, more, now, Bronn, harder," hips moving back against Bronn's underneath him, although that could have just been the force of Bronn's thrusts, which was enough to lift Tyrion's body up off the pillows a bit with each push. "More, Bronn," Tyrion demanded, so Bronn shoved his cock into Tyrion harder, marveling at how perfect it felt, even as the world began to recede from him, perfect as the cut of blade into flesh, striking the killing blow. Tyrion was perfect beneath him too, all sweat-darkened matted curls and cock-swollen pink lips and brilliant green eyes and that same plea for more, more, more from his mouth and his body, insatiable.

            He'd imagined making Tyrion come without touching his cock, but he knew suddenly it would be all he could do to make Tyrion come at all before he came for a second bloody time, the way he felt the blood all rushing to his cock and the world roaring in his ears. He had to slow a bit to wrap his hand around Tyrion's pretty pink cock, but Tyrion didn't seem to mind once he'd taken hold of it. It was a solid, meaty handful, pulsing in his hand as he tugged on it to the rhythm of his thrusts into Tyrion.

            He was clumsy a few times and felt his nails catch against the raw, vulnerable skin, but Tyrion didn't even seem to mind that, swearing and pleading and going wild beneath him all the same. "Bronn, Bronn, please," Tyrion kept gasping, until finally he was spurting into Bronn's grasp, and Bronn had never in his whole brutish little life felt half so powerful.

            Bronn's own climax took him by surprise this time, so caught up in the feeling of Tyrion coming that he was unprepared for the explosion in himself. It hit him like a cask of wildfire set loose in his blood, and shook him for longer than the first, wracking his body until he collapsed atop Tyrion, probably crushing him truly with his weight suddenly crashing down, but he couldn't hold himself up any longer. Tyrion gasped at that, but seemed to survive it nonetheless.

            They lay there for longer than Bronn could say, not speaking, struggling to get their breath back. _My last night in this world_ , Bronn kept thinking nonsensically, that and just, _Tyrion. Tyrion, Tyrion, Tyrion._

            Then Tyrion told him to get off him, and Bronn dragged himself onto his side. Tyrion eventually sat up, and didn't move to clean himself, but started rubbing at his legs. When Bronn asked, he said they hurt. Bronn knew from the long treks they'd taken together that they often hurt Tyrion, but this time, what had made them sore, along with no doubt other parts of Tyrion, had been the satisfaction of Bronn's brute desires, so Bronn reached out to rub them for Tyrion, and Tyrion didn't stop him. After a bit, that seemed to soothe him some. They fell asleep on the floor amongst the pillows, sticky with each other's seed, wrapped up together. Bronn dreamed of death.

 

            The road to King's Landing was quicker than the Vale. They rode with a retinue of Lannister knights who stopped with them at every inn on the way, but only for a night before getting back on the road again, to rush the new Hand to the new king. Bronn took care never to bring up anything sensitive or pry when Tyrion did, but Tyrion talked enough of his own accord, on the nights Bronn came to drink in his room, for Bronn to gather that Tyrion had a considerable amount of disdain for his nephew. For all the information Tyrion carelessly spewed, though, Bronn had no idea what Tyrion thought or wanted after that drunken night before the Green Fork, and couldn't bring himself to ask.

            Tyrion hadn't said a word, though it certainly wasn't as if he could have forgotten the whole affair from drunkenness. It was impossible if only for the bruises Bronn had left on him, which he'd had ample opportunity to catalog when he'd had to armor Tyrion the morning after himself in lieu of a squire. But Tyrion's father had gifted him with an insult of a squire since, a shy highborn boy called Podric who seemed as terrified of Bronn as he was of Tyrion, and so it didn't even fall to Bronn to care for Tyrion's horse and saddle now. At least Tyrion would tell Bronn to come in or send for him on nights at inns, but the summon to his bed itself hadn't come that first time as Bronn had half-expected, nor had it since.

            He had thought Tyrion would allow him again, if only because day after long day riding seemed to leave his legs especially sore, and Bronn could have rubbed them for him again after. He didn't seem to have anyone else doing it for him, nor to be sending Podric or any of the red cloaks out for a prettier bedwarmer than Bronn- a woman or a simpering boy-whore or even some other brute of a man to strike his fancy in turn- but nor had he so much alluded to the prospect of Bronn warming his bed again, as if Bronn had dreamt it all. Bronn would search out Tyrion's face, his eyes for any hint it was on Tyrion's mind as it was Bronn's, but Tyrion was a formidably hard man to read, beneath all his japes and showiness.

            Bronn called himself craven in his head for his own inability to move, to figure out one way or another whether he would ever have Tyrion again, but Tyrion had gone in the short time he'd known him from a scorned captive with a virtual death sentence to the Hand of the bloody King. To be in the employ of at least nominally the second-most powerful man in Westeros, to have his ear and his coin, should have been prize enough for Bronn, should have satisfied his ambition well enough. But Tyrion had been right to say Bronn was a greedy man.

            In the end, it wasn't Bronn's courage that prompted this state of affairs to break, but his own inability to hide his desires. Bronn was a simple man who loved drink and killing and fucking and had never learned much of anything else, and he never had stood a chance of hiding his true mind from a man as cunning as Tyrion, even distracted by his new assignment.

            They were still a week out from King's Landing, near enough to start sniffing the stench of it, ensconced for the night in one of the nicer inns yet. Tyrion was going on about what he knew from rumors and reputation and his own memory of his new small council, which his lord father seemed to want him to sort out. "Pity Lord Renly no longer sits the small council and sits a garden-mummer's throne instead," Tyrion mused, lounging back across his featherbed barefoot, while Bronn sat at his table and drank. "That's one man at least I had the measure of, not the least because he and his Knight of the Flowers share one of my... persuasions. Littlefinger would jibe about it openly in court and tourney. Never the subtlest of men, Littlefinger, and yet- subtler than the rose-crowned stag, to be sure."

            "And how would that have helped you?" Bronn asked, curious despite knowing how far beyond him these court intrigues fell. There was a fascination just to tracking how Tyrion's mind weaved through them, the strategies and judgments. He knew nothing of Littlefinger but the man's brothels, but he'd wager Tyrion would be more than a match for the Master of Coin, and not just because of the family name behind Tyrion- but then, he was hardly what fancy folk would call impartial.

            "If you know what a man wants," Tyrion said, "What drives a man, you can predict his moves. How did you put it- let's see- 'dwarf, sellsword, noble knight'- it isn't hard to guide a dog once you know the hand that holds his leash. Or in this case, the cock."

            "Sellsword, eh?" Bronn laughed. "And who holds my leash, my lord?"

            Tyrion's lips twisted, and he set down his wine to regard Bronn. "You tell me, my friend. You tell me."

            Bronn swallowed hard. "Suppose that'd be whoever I'm selling my sword to," he answered automatically.

            "That would be me," Tyrion pronounced with relish, then shrugged like a lord on his throne. "And yet I find you singularly hard to predict."

            "Me?" Bronn scoffed. "I think you have a pretty good idea what I want."

            There it was, that light in his eyes. "Do I?" Then he had gotten up off the bed, glass still in hand, and set the glass deliberately on the table beside Bronn's. Bronn looked over at him, nearly eye level with Bronn sitting and Tyrion standing. He felt Tyrion's gaze rake slowly up and down him in that achingly deliberate way he remembered from that night. "What do you want?"

            Bronn didn't know what to say. He'd never found himself half as tongue-tied around anyone else in his life as Tyrion Lannister. "Anything I can get," he bit out, and Tyrion smiled.

            Tyrion paused, weighing his words. "Most men," he said finally, carefully, "Most women, enjoy a novelty, a curiosity, for one time, and then they return quite happily to the normal way of things, without even caring much to look back upon that curiosity they enjoyed the once."

            Bronn bit his tongue, tensing up for he didn't know what. "Try me," he spat out, and Tyrion reached out with one finger and traced it down two days growth of stubble along Bronn's cheek. _Thank the Seven_ , he exulted inwardly, though he didn't know which of them would possibly ever condone what Bronn meant to do next. _Thank the Seven he's touching me again._

            "Oh, should I?" Tyrion taunted, grinning from ear to ear, and Bronn reached forward and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, dragged him onto his lap to kiss that sneering face. Tyrion melted against him eagerly, as if he'd been waiting for Bronn to do this all night and maybe longer, waiting for days for Bronn to grab him and take him.

            Tyrion tasted of wine just like before, but Bronn had drank much less, and his head was clearer, sharp enough for him to really feel it this time, without the panic of impending death to cloud it either. Tyrion's tongue was as quick and clever as he remembered, and seven hells, just being around Tyrion was enough to make him giddy as a boy. Having Tyrion in his arms was making him think crazy, ridiculous things.

            "If you don't want me again," Bronn growled against Tyrion's lips, "Tell me. Otherwise, I plan to keep collecting and collecting that bloody debt."

            For once, Tyrion didn't have a smart comment back, just nodded hastily and shoved his mouth onto Bronn's again, and that was answer enough for Bronn. There was a proper bed this time, so he stood and headed for it, lifting Tyrion up with ease. Tyrion let out a shocked noise, hands clamping to Bronn's shoulders as Bronn carried him over and then deposited Tyrion on his back beneath him, hearing the bedsprings creak as both their weight fell onto it. "Bronn!" Tyrion gasped, and Bronn laughed.

            "I'm not going to crush you, right?" Bronn countered, and Tyrion wrapped his arms around Bronn's neck and his legs around Bronn's waist in response, pressing up closer against him. Bronn kissed him harder, and Tyrion nipped at his mouth in response, dragging his teeth over Bronn's lower lip. They were both laughing then as they kissed and kissed, and Bronn was starting to feel drunker now.

            After, Bronn was so lightheaded and stupid with happiness that he started to sing under his breath, which Tyrion met with a quizzical look. "The singing sellsword," Tyrion murmured sleepily.

            "Pardon, my lord," Bronn whispered, and Tyrion chuckled and pressed a soft, long kiss to the hollow of his throat.

            "No, your voice is... not terrible," Tyrion said. "What were you humming?"

            "For hands of gold are always cold," Bronn intoned, "But a woman's hands are warm."

            "I don't know the song," Tyrion sighed, and shifted his hips to get comfortable. Bronn grabbed Tyrion's waist with one broad hand to keep him from squirming too far away.

            "A singer in Flea Bottom, Symeon Silver Tongue- Don't, don't move, don't go," Bronn said. "Just- stay like this. I'll sing something else for you. Whatever song you like."

            "A woman's hands?" Tyrion repeated with a laugh. "None here. Hands of gold? I can provide those. No, sing some more of it for me."

            Bronn nuzzled at Tyrion's hair before worrying the gesture was too tender, then damning the thought and nuzzling Tyrion again. "For she was his secret treasure," he sang softly, and Tyrion hummed back appreciatively, curling up against him. Bronn stopped and began again. "For he was his secret treasure," he sang instead. "He was his shame and his bliss. And a chain and a keep are nothing, to a woman's- to a lion's kiss..."

            _For hands of gold are always cold, but a lion still has claws, a lion's hands are warm, as long and sharp as yours, rode o'er the winds and the steps and the cobbles, weeps o'er the halls and not a soul to kiss..._

Tyrion was asleep in his arms. _I'll lose my head for this,_ Bronn realized suddenly with utter certainty, _My head will decorate the spikes atop the Red Keep before I'm over, and that's if I'm lucky_ , but he did not get up and get his clothes and ride as far from the Inn where his doom lay as he could go, down to Dorne or to a ship across the Narrow Sea and all the way to Slaver's Bay, even Asshai-by-the-Shadow might not be far enough. Instead, he wrapped his arms tighter around Tyrion and went to sleep. Bronn dreamed of the bells in King's Landing, ringing at night.


End file.
